‘Yes, very pleased,’ I replied, without much enthusiasm (if Simon had been coming with me my heart would have been soaring like a lark).
‘You aren’t worrying about me, are you?’ he asked.
‘No, of course not. I’ll see you on Friday at Inverquill. If you let me know what time you arrive I can send a car to meet you.’
‘It won’t be Friday, Mums. I was just going to tell you that. You see they’ve had to put off the treasure hunt till Friday night, and there’s to be a cricket match next week. They asked Lance to play in the village team but he doesn’t want to—he’s a wet bob, of course—so he said I could take his place. I’m not sure what day it will be. Then there’s Hurlestone Manor—I want to go over there if they ask me. Will it be all right if I let you know what day I’ll be coming north?’
‘Yes, quite all right.’
Simon put his arm round me and gave me a hug. ‘You’re sure?’ he asked anxiously. ‘You don’t mind, Mums? You see, the cricket match would be good fun. All the local chaps play—and they’re frightfully keen, Lance says.’
‘Of course you must play,’ I said.
As I went down to dinner I paused, as I always did, and looked up at the picture of the fifth baronet. To me he had become Gerald and I addressed him silently: What do you think about it? Are you pleased that Simon is being absorbed into Limbourne?
There was no reply, of course—how could there be?—but the words of Aunt Liz came into my mind. ‘Gerald got away and never wanted to go back, so he can’t have liked it much. Would Gerald have wanted his son to go to Limbourne? . . . There must be something queer about the whole set-up. I only hope you won’t regret it.’
My last evening at Limbourne was spent with Florence in the drawing-room, listening to her reminiscences and disentangling her wools. (I had done this several times during my visit but to-night they were in a worse tangle than ever.) Lance and Simon had gone to see a film at West Barstead and Florence seemed to be under the impression that Anthea had gone with them. I knew that Lance had taken Simon on his motor-bike, but I did not bother to contradict her. It did not matter to me where Anthea had gone.
‘I hope you won’t think it rude if I don’t come down in the morning to see you off,’ said Florence. ‘You’re leaving early, aren’t you? It always upsets me dreadfully to be wakened early.’
‘Of course not,’ I told her. ‘You mustn’t think of it, Florence. I’ll say good-bye to-night. If you don’t mind I’ll just say it now; I’ve got my packing to do.’
‘Packing is dreadfully tiring,’ complained Florence. ‘I remember once when we were in Paris . . .’
I listened patiently to the story, reminding myself that it would be a long long time before I should have to listen to another, and then I said good-bye—and good night—and went upstairs.
*
4
It was quite late, I had finished my packing and was lying in bed reading, when there was a light tap on the door leading into the bathroom which I shared with Anthea. I was surprised that she should want to come in and see me, but perhaps she had decided she had better say good-bye.
‘I saw your light,’ explained Anthea. ‘I wondered if you had any aspirin.’
As she came forward into the circle of light thrown by the bedside lamp I saw she was wearing a blue evening frock. She was flushed and her eyes were shining. I had never seen her look like this before; she seemed to have come alive.
‘Aspirin?’ I said. ‘Yes, of course. Are you feverish, Anthea?’
‘Yes, feverish,’ said Anthea in a queer excited way. ‘I shan’t sleep a wink unless I can have something to take. Have you any sleeping pills?’
‘I’ve got aspirin—that’s all. I’ll get the bottle out of my case.’
‘Don’t bother, it isn’t really aspirin I want.’
‘What’s the matter, Anthea?’
She sat down on the end of my bed. ‘There’s nothing the matter—or everything. Sometimes I feel life isn’t worth while.’
‘You want to go to London and study painting, don’t you?’
‘I wanted to do that—but they wouldn’t let me—it’s too late now.’
‘Anthea,’ I said earnestly. ‘It isn’t too late. Why don’t you go to your grandfather and speak to him seriously about it? Tell him——’
‘Tell him!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ve been here a week; surely you know who does the “telling” in this house! Besides, I don’t want it now.’
‘You don’t want it?’ I asked in surprise. ‘I thought you were very keen on your painting.’
‘I’m bored with it. I’m no good, you know. I don’t suppose I shall ever be any good.’
‘If you had lessons——’
‘I’ve told you I’m bored with painting. I want—I want something quite different.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want—the moon!’ she cried. ‘That’s funny, isn’t it? Why don’t you laugh, Katherine?’
‘Listen, Anthea,’ I said as firmly as I could. ‘If you don’t tell me what’s the matter I can’t help you, can I?’
‘I don’t want help!’
‘Then why did you come?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Anthea piteously. ‘I had to talk to someone and there was nobody else. Talk to me, Katherine. Talk about anything—it doesn’t matter what—I can’t go to bed feeling like this.’
Anthea had said I was to talk to her but I could think of nothing to say. I gazed at her helplessly.
‘Talk about anything,’ she repeated.
‘Have you been to a party?’ I asked—it was the first thing that came into my head. ‘You look as if you had been to a party. You’re wearing a very pretty frock.’
‘No, not a party; just out for a drive with—with someone.’
‘With Oliver Wade?’
‘How did you know?’
‘I didn’t know. I just thought he was a friend of yours, that’s all.’
‘Why shouldn’t I go out with him?’ she demanded. ‘He can’t come here—they’re beastly to him. They’re beastly to him,’ she repeated furiously. ‘You saw how beastly they were the day he came to lunch. He had to creep out by the side door in case the Bart saw him and kicked up a row. You liked him, didn’t you, Katherine? You were laughing and having jokes with him; he’s amusing and—and attractive, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, very.’
She leant forward and lowered her voice. ‘He’s wild and dangerous, that’s why I like him.’
‘Dangerous?’
‘He drives like a madman—it’s terribly exciting—it’s terrifying! His car goes like a rocket, rushing through the darkness; the wind whistles in your ears. Then suddenly he stops and switches off the lights. . . .’
‘Anthea, you shouldn’t——’
‘Oh, yes, he’s dangerous,’ she continued breathlessly. ‘You never know what he’ll do next. I could tell you—but I won’t. I’ve told you too much already. I’d better go to bed.’
I took her hand and said earnestly, ‘Listen to me, Anthea. I’m older than you are and much more experienced——’
‘I don’t want a sermon!’ she exclaimed, snatching her hand away and rising and going towards the door.
‘Be careful, Anthea.’
‘Be careful!’ she echoed scornfully. ‘That’s what everyone says: be careful—slow down—this hill is dangerous—fasten your safety belt! But I say, let’s have a jolly good time while we’re alive. When the bomb falls we’ll all be blown up together; safety belts won’t be much good.’ She opened the bathroom door. ‘Good night, Katherine,’ she said—and shut the door firmly behind her before I could reply.
I was half-way out of bed to go after her when I heard the key turn in the lock. So that was that.
Anthea’s troubles were beyond me. She had taken me by surprise; perhaps I might have done more to help her if I had been prepared. I had tried to warn her, but she had thrown the warning back in my face. I felt I had misma
naged the whole thing.
For a long time I lay and thought about Anthea and wondered what on earth I could do. I had thought she was unhappy; I saw now that she was desperate. I was sorry for her—terribly sorry—and worried. Something ought to be done—but what? Should I go round to the other door and try to make her listen to me? I knew it would be useless. It would be absolutely useless to go to her mother; I knew that. I wondered if I should tell Sir Mortimer what was happening—that would blow everything sky-high—but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to betray Anthea’s confidence and deliver her into his hands. Perhaps that was what I should have done—but I couldn’t do it.
At last I gave it up in despair; there was nothing I could do, absolutely nothing.
*
5
Simon came downstairs in the morning whilst I was having breakfast. He sat and talked to me and drank a cup of tea. I had not slept for more than a couple of hours so I was tired and depressed; it was difficult to appear cheerful.
Then, just as I was leaving, Sir Mortimer came down to say good-bye. We shook hands and I thanked him for his hospitality.
‘Your visit has been too short, you must stay longer next time,’ he said. ‘At Christmas, perhaps, when this young man is in Austria. Arrange that, Katherine.’
Simon was kissing me, so I could not reply. ‘Take care of yourself, Mums,’ he was saying. ‘I’ll be coming soon.’
Hurrell was waiting at the bottom of the steps with the door of the car open. I ran down the steps and got in.
‘Good-bye, Mums!’ cried Simon, waving his hand.
As the car moved off down the drive I looked back and saw the two figures standing in the doorway; Sir Mortimer had his hand on Simon’s shoulder.
PART THREE
Chapter Twenty
‘Help, you’re strangling me!’ I cried.
The twins released me from their embrace. ‘But you don’t mind being strangled—for love,’ said Daisy.
I didn’t really mind . . . but it is a trifle disturbing to be wakened early in the morning (after a long journey the day before) by four arms wound tightly round your neck. As a matter of fact I had dreamt that I was in the toils of an octopus, but I was awake now and the dream had given place to reality. I had arrived at the flat the night before and was here in my own bed with my own rather shabby but dearly-loved furniture all around me. It was late when I arrived, the children had been asleep, but Aunt Liz had been here to greet me and to assure me that all had gone well. She had then taken her departure and said good-bye, for she was flying to Copenhagen the following morning with a friend.
The twins had wakened early—as they always did—and here they were, sitting upon my bed and strangling me—for love.
‘No, I don’t mind,’ I said and hugged them close.
‘You won’t go away again, will you?’ said Den.
‘Not for a long, long time anyhow.’
‘Never,’ said Den firmly.
‘But you’ve been quite happy with Aunt Liz, haven’t you?’
‘We haven’t been miserable,’ admitted Daisy.
‘She has been very kind to you,’ I pointed out. ‘She took you to a party at West Linton; you’ve had fun with Bella; you’ve been to the Zoo and——’
‘But you’ve been away such a long, long time,’ complained Den.
I didn’t argue the matter for, although I had been away for only a week, it seemed a very long time to me. ‘Well, I’m back now,’ I said cheerfully. ‘And the next thing is to get everything ready for Thursday.’
‘We’ll help you to pack,’ said Daisy.
I knew that I should have to get up in a few minutes and prepare breakfast, but I put off the task as long as I could by telling them some of my adventures and making them as interesting as possible.
‘Are we going to Limbourne some day?’ inquired Daisy.
‘I don’t think you’d like it much.’
‘Because we’d have to be good all the time,’ said Den, nodding to show that he understood.
‘Yes, every single minute,’ I said firmly. ‘You’d have to be as quiet as mice and do what you were told and never, never argue.’
‘But Simon likes it,’ Den pointed out. ‘If Simon hadn’t liked it he would have come home, wouldn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ I said—and sighed.
‘When is Simon coming?’ asked Daisy anxiously.
‘Soon,’ I replied. ‘He’ll come when we’re settled at the cottage.’ Then I hugged them again and kissed their soft cheeks and got up to make their breakfast.
It was a busy day, washing and ironing and packing, but although I had so much to do I was happy (I felt like a woman who has just been released from prison). After tea I went out to engage seats in the train for our journey on Thursday and to get the tickets, leaving the children alone in the flat. It was not often that I left them alone—and never at night, of course—but they were quite sensible so I was not worried. They were delighted at the idea of being on their own and assured me that there was no need for me to hurry back.
The errand took a little longer than I expected—I was away for nearly three-quarters of an hour—so I ran up the stairs as quickly as I could and put my latch-key in the door.
Immediately, the door was flung open and they fell upon me with shrieks of delight—as if I had been away for days.
‘Guess who’s been here!’ cried Daisy.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘We’ve had a visitor,’ said Den.
‘Guess who!’ cried Daisy.
‘She’ll never guess,’ declared Den.
‘She’ll never guess!’ sang Daisy, capering round in her usual crazy way. ‘She’ll never guess—so we’ll have to tell her. It was Uncle Arly.’
‘Uncle who?’ I asked in bewilderment.
‘That’s what he said we were to call him,’ explained Den. ‘It isn’t his real name, of course.’
They were in such tearing spirits that I thought the whole thing was a joke. I took off my jacket and went into the kitchen to prepare an omelet for supper . . . but the two pursued me, Daisy chattering and Den putting in a word or two when she paused for breath.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘It was a good joke but it’s over now.’
‘It isn’t a joke,’ declared Den. ‘He was here for nearly half an hour but he had to go.’
‘He had to go,’ echoed Daisy, laughing merrily. ‘He had to go and sit on a heap of barley.’
‘Do be quiet and tell me properly!’ I said.
‘Which?’ asked Den. ‘If we’ve got to be quiet we can’t tell you.’
‘He was in a joky mood,’ said Daisy. ‘He said it was because he was free to do what he wanted. He said he’d just got out of school—but that was silly. Old people like him don’t have to go to school.’
‘Who was it?’ I asked as I broke the eggs into the bowl and stirred them gently.
‘Uncle Arly of course,’ said Daisy. ‘We wanted to make tea for him, but of course we couldn’t because we’d promised not to light anything while you were away—and he said, “Quite right, I’ll have a drink of water.”’
‘We gave him orange juice,’ put in Den.
‘He said it was very refreshing,’ added Daisy.
‘Who was it?’ I repeated. ‘Did he leave a message?’
‘He wrote his telephone number on the block,’ said Den. ‘He said you were to ring him up between eight and nine o’clock to-night. There, that’s the message.’
‘He said we could all fit in,’ declared Daisy, chuckling. ‘He said to me, “You’re a bit overweight of course, but we’ll squeeze you in somehow.” And when I said, “What about the luggage?” he said, “Yes, all except the grand piano.” That was a joke,’ explained Daisy. ‘He knows we haven’t got a grand piano and, even if we had, we wouldn’t want to take it to the cottage.’
‘Daisy!’ I exclaimed. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Uncle Arly, of course. He
was sitting on a heap of barley with a railway ticket in his hat. It’s a poem and we’re going to learn it so that we can say it to him and——’
‘Daisy!’ I cried. ‘Will you be quiet and let Den explain!’ I said it in my ‘no nonsense’ voice which they knew must be obeyed.
‘It was Mr. Maclaren,’ said Den soberly. ‘He’s going to take us to Loch Ron on Thursday in his car. You’ve to ring him up and fix the time.’
I was struck dumb with surprise. Alec! What was he doing here? He was to have gone to London with Zilla. I had imagined him in London. At last I found my voice. ‘Are you sure?’ I asked.
‘Of course I’m sure,’ replied Den. ‘I told you the message. He wrote his number on the block. It’s his club. He’ll be there between eight and nine o’clock.’
‘Won’t it be fun?’ cried Daisy. ‘No horrid old trains! His car goes like a bomb. It went like a bomb when he took us to Queensferry. Isn’t it gorgeous, Mums?’
I made the omelet quickly and the children helped me to carry in the plates. All the time I kept on wondering why Alec had changed his plans. Why hadn’t he gone to London with Zilla? Why had he offered to take us to Craig-an-Ron in his car? Why had his mood suddenly changed from deep depression to high spirits? I should know the answers to all these questions when I rang him up, of course. I decided to refuse his offer to take us. The children would be disappointed but that could not be helped. I must tell Alec that our plans were all fixed to go by train, our seats engaged and the tickets bought. I must tell Alec that there was no need for him to bother.
*
2
It was half past eight before I had got the children off to bed and was free to ring up Alec’s club. He must have been waiting, for they found him at once.
‘Alec,’ I said. ‘What have you done to my children? They’re quite crazy.’
He laughed. ‘We were all crazy together; it was fun. I’m Uncle Arly—did they tell you?’
‘Why Uncle Arly? It’s Lear, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I’ve forgotten most of it but I’m going to look it up for them. I shall give half a crown to the one who says it best.’
Katherine Wentworth (The Marriage of Katherine Book 1) Page 16